


Captain's wife

by HelpingHanikan



Series: Reader one-shots [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, Not Beta Read, One Shot, flangst, kinda domestic, nothing special, reposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelpingHanikan/pseuds/HelpingHanikan
Summary: Steve never considered what he was leaving behind when he would try and enlist.
Relationships: Captain America/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/You
Series: Reader one-shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084520
Kudos: 16





	Captain's wife

The letter in Martha’s hand was almost black from how much she was manhandling it. Between every pause in work, she’d snatch it from her pocket. Run her thumb over where her husband wrote his name, once or twice reading the entire thing and holding up the line.

“She got it yesterday,” Sarah, the beautiful round woman who’s own had been shipped out. “It’s surprising she came in, honestly.”

Martha sits at one of the tiny tables across from you. Letter in front of her, face cupped in hands. You try not to look at her, but a few glances wouldn’t hurt. Looking more towards Sarah to try and indicate if anything changed. Based her avoidance of eye contact all there was is a sitting scared woman.

“How’s your Steve doing?” Asks Lauren, the third woman at your table.

“He’s still in basics,” Short, simple, same answer every time you’ve been asked.

“Been there for a long time.” Lauren says with a _hmm_ sound.

“It must be rough, thinking that three days is a long time.” Sarah almost snaps on your behalf.

It seemed Sarah was the only one who believed that little Steven had qualified. She knew Steve longer than you had, she knew his determination, so it came only as a little surprise that he made it.

“Long enough for a letter back, maybe?” Lauren asks.

“No, not long enough.” You say.

It was easy to put up with Lauren’s shit before. Just a week ago you were the object of almost hate because of jealousy. One of the women who didn’t have to worry about losing her man to war. Whose man was so privileged he could try again and again to qualify, that you could stand by the doorway and encourage him without a single fear of ever losing your man. Now, to Lauren, it was like watching karma kick you in the shin.

Based on the rumor mill Steve wasn’t actually drafted. Supposedly he actually just left you. From there it varied what happened to him; after too many failed attempts at being recruited he ran off to find a nice cliff or high place to fall from. Or that he found a better woman, one who didn’t work so much, one that knew how to treat a man. Both hurt, both suggested you were to blame. Not enough of a woman, a wife, to keep a man with so few options like Steve.

“At least, with your free time, you can pick up his chores. Without children there to bug you, that is.” Lauren adds. “I imagine any of his children would have needed extra care.”

* * *

The house was crypt without Steve and Bucky. In the span of two nights both of your men were gone. Bucky first, that was expected, the hug was quick and the demand he doesn’t die was faster. Steve second and his was worse.

It never occurred to you that your man’s biggest smile could make your heart drop into your shoes.

His departure was anything but quick like Bucky’s: first, a quarter of the books were gone from the shelves. Then some clothes. He took any warmth that was on the left side of the bed, he took the companion to your hand and the kisses you got during the day when you’d venture too close into his space. By the time he was gone, it was years later, and the only thing he left was a crypt of memories.

Sarah, who was a saint this entire time, brought her life into yours. Those weeks still dragged, but they dragged by helping cook meals. They pulled like her children pulled your arms and tried to climb you like a tree. They moved with every walk of her dog, every night spent on her couch and every moment she yelled for your feet to get off the cushions. By the time you made your way back to the crypt, it had been days.

Opening the door and it was still as empty as Steve had left it. The jewelry you were wearing that night; single charm necklace and pair of stud earrings, together not worth much except in sentimental value. To a robber it didn’t matter; they were shiny and easily grabble the first time through. But there they sat, in the corner of the counter, next to the stove right where you set them minutes before Steve left.

Both hands are massaging your sore feet when the door knocks. Everyone near you knew the crypt was empty, why would they knock?

“No one’s here.” You yelled.

The door kept banging.

“This is the radio!” You yell.

“You shouldn’t leave it on when no one is here.” The door says in Steve’s voice.

Dining room chair almost shattered when you shot up from it. It’s back hitting the kitchen floor. The wood at least cracked, but that didn’t matter. Making it across the kitchen floor to the door did. The old handle became stupider and stupider the longer it took to turn.

Finally, turning after two tries, it flung open. Sending you straight into a wall.

Your face presses into course military fabric, cheek against chest. It’s a panic, an absolute panic as to who you’ve just run into. His hands are on your shoulders, they are gentle, but they are too strong and press into bone. A hard step backwards to see the face of the man who married on a body you hadn’t.

He’s almost a foot taller, over a hundred pounds heavier and the rest of him…

“These are new,” You say with a gentle squeeze to his forearms.

“It’s a-there’s a lot.” He says, with a laugh.

For the first time you reach upwards to cup his face. Focusing on the one part of him that hadn’t changed, thumbs gently touching his cheeks. Standing on tip-toes to scratch through the light hay colored hair. He leans forward, a pup pressing into his best friend’s pets.

“What’d they do to you?”

His smile is off, like he wasn’t sure whether you’d approve or not.


End file.
